The Truth Hurts Doesn't It?
by HetaliaOverload
Summary: It seems everyone is hiding something, but Britain has absolutely no idea what they're talking about anymore. That was true until one day, he wished everyone would tell him the truth, and got more than he expected! Humor in later chapter


It was a quiet day in the early spring. Birds flitted and chirped in the gardens; flowers blossomed in vibrant rows along the street. The man walking beside them, however, barely noticed the bright gardenias and shy daylilies. America was nervous; he wanted to tell Britain...no. Not Britain. He wanted to tell Arthur how he felt, and he'd decided that today was the day.  
He stopped at the corner or Britain's street and pulled out his phone to check his appearance. He pushed his glasses up his nose and ran one hand nervously through his dirty blond hair, shoving the phone in his pocket again and starting toward the other country's house. America's legs felt like jelly; the doorsteps seemed to take forever to walk up. Now that he was here, that he couldn't tell himself he could run away, fear at Britain's potential reaction gripped him. *He'll think it's a joke. He'll hate me forever.* He hesitated as he reached up to knock on door. He fought back negative thoughts and had just convinced himself to get it over with and knock when Britain opened the door. The shorter nation raised one eyebrow, unimpressed. "How long are you going to stand there? I've been watching you for ten minutes."  
*Damn! Was it really that long?* Hiding a smile, Britain continued. "Well are you going to come in or not?" He stepped back, opening the door wider. America blinked once, suddenly realized his hand was still poised to knock the door that Britain had moved, and shoved the offending limb into the pocket of his aviator jacket. This was it. He was going to say it. Taking a deep breath, he brushed past the other country into the house.  
"Hey, Artie," he said as Britain moved passed him and into the living room. "I have something to tell you."  
They sat down on russet-and-green plaid armchairs. They were surprisingly soft; America felt himself sinking into the squishiness. "Would you like some tea?" The Brit asked, gesturing at the Jasperware teapot. Britain had his own prettily decorated cup sitting in front of him.  
"Uh, no thanks. I think I'm fine." America pushed his glasses up his nose again and swallowed thickly. "Now, about what I had to tell you." He looked Britain directly in the eyes. *Those big, beautiful green eyes that - No! Stay focused!* He scolded himself inwardly.  
"Yes?" Britain frowned, concerned, wondering why it was so hard for America to get his words out.  
"I love you."  
Somewhat shocked, (actually, very shocked), Britain flushed, his face turning a rosy shade of pink as he sputtered, trying to figure out how he was supposed to respond to that comment. Smiling slightly, America raised his phone for a second and took a quick photo. Putting the phone back in his pocket, America's finger brushed the 'send to friends' button without him realizing in the slightest. He was thinking about how it actually wasn't that hard, and Britain didn't seem to hate him; America didn't see that Britain had noticed the phone's flash and was now glowering at him.  
"Did you just take a picture of me?" Britain said, rising from his armchair.  
"Well, um... Yeah. I guess I did." he replied, thinking fast to come up with a reason that Britain would accept for why he'd taken that picture. He couldn't.

"Why?"

"I…don't know." America felt like a child, making excuses, and Britain wasn't impressed. Britain ignored the other's stupid response and crossed his arms.  
"Now why did you really do it?"  
"Um…because I wanted to?" He blushed lightly. That was the truth. He just wanted it so he could recall this day at the touch of a button. "I love you, Arthur." he said again. But the look on the other country's was beyond shock.  
All around the world, cell phones and emails beeped to notify their owners of a message. France, the self-dubbed country of love (and other things), picked up his phone. Opening the message, he saw the picture of Britain's face a shade of lovely pink. "Oh Angleterre," France sighed dramatically. "What brings this lovely face to me?"  
In a kitchen miles away from his brother, there was a Canadian making polar bear food for "Kimahato". He picked up his phone as it bleeped and his eyes widened at the picture there. Canada's fingers flew across the little phone's keyboard. *Why did you send me this?* he typed. *Did you send this to anyone else? That's so mean!*  
Another country was checking his email, bored, as he had already read the weekly tomato newsletter. Spain's computer buzzed slightly, alerting him to the new email he'd received. He clicked it, his lazy grin growing into a large smirk as he saw the contents. "My, oh my. Romeo, come see!"  
"Don't call me that, you bastard!" Romano spat angrily. He came over anyway, his hands in his pockets. "What is it this time?" he muttered, looking at Spain out of the corner of his eye before focusing on the computer screen. "Um. Okay. Next time, don't bother me with such stupid emails." Romano grumbled as he walked away, but he sounded less angry and more like he was trying not to laugh.  
America's phone went off. He retrieved it from his pocket and stared at the message from Canada. He shut the phone and gave himself a mental note to reply later, slightly disturbed that he'd sent the picture to other countries. *Who else got it?*  
"Tell me why you took that picture, you bloody git. Stop lying."  
"Because I felt like it." He really was a child now. He won't look Britain in the face or give any straight answers.  
"Okay," Britain sighed. "Tell me the truth, America, before I curse you into the coldest part of Siberia!"  
"Fine. I'm leaving," America answered, turning and walking out through the door, upset and angry at Britain for not believing him. Britain, still slightly flustered, sat down hard into the plaid armchair he'd vacated earlier. He took a sip from his teacup, hoping to calm his nerves.  
He could already tell it was going to be a very lonely night.


End file.
